


The White Stag

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV), Polar (2019)
Genre: Casual Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Hookups, Protective Duncan, Sexual Dysfunction, Some scar worship, Surprise bitch we're neighbours, protective Chiyoh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-17 22:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: The woman. That woman. Her silence, her skin. The way she tasted. A week's come and gone and Duncan still can’t get her out of his head.





	1. Chapter 1

It's a hell of a hike in this weather, but Duncan finally makes it to the frozen banks of the stream where he first saw the albino stag.

He settles in for a long stakeout: stool, snacks, a thermos of Camille's finest winter coffee, a tarpaulin to keep off the snow. He's armed, and not just for the sake of old habits. Blut and his crew have been rotting for six months now, but Duncan keeps his guard up since that whole fucked up mess. Even in the deepest woods. Plenty of people still want him dead.

He could be here a while. He doesn't mind. If this turns out to be the place where he can reliably spot the stag, it’ll be worth freezing his balls off. Because then he can show Camille. He can bring her here, surprise her with something rare and beautiful. And man, will she be happy. Picturing her face when she first sees the animal keeps at bay the foul mood Duncan's been pickling in for days.

He pours the coffee, lights a cigarette and watches the snow come down between the pines. Wind catches flurries of fat flakes and blows them back against the trees, plastering the trunks in white. Duncan is content to just sit and stare and wait. He doesn't need to concentrate too hard — this isn't a job. And that's just as well. His mind keeps drifting and blowing, like the snow, back into last week.

The woman. _That_ woman. Her silence, her skin. The way she tasted.

He thought he could masturbate his way out of this, but a week's come and gone and he still can’t get her out of his head.

Half an hour into his watch, the reason for his protracted foul mood dawns on Duncan at last: he'll probably never see her again.

\---

Last Tuesday — the same day he first saw the stag.

He drops Camille off at the animal shelter (she started volunteering, thinks he should too), potters around the pet shop for a while, then heads for the diner.

No one else there, only the woman two seats down from him, sat at the counter in perfect profile. She's taking big, measured bites of her pear tart. She's still got her gloves on. The black leather makes the fork in her hand look oddly like a weapon. It's the gleam of the fork as it precision-disassembles the pastry that makes Duncan side-stare.

Had he seen the woman before? He can’t shake the sense of familiarity. Like Duncan himself, she sticks out in this part of the world: too lean, without a sliver of winter blubber. Coat, hair and boots, all too dark for this Fair Isle knit town. Duncan likes the boots: knee-high lace-ups in dark brown leather, practical with sturdy winter soles. It's the sort of boots he'd buy for himself if he were a woman. Before he can dwell on the weirdness of that thought, he finds that his stare has been returned.

The woman has finished her tart and swivelled on her stool to face Duncan so directly that he briefly worries his look had been too lecherous, or that his eyepatch is giving her the creeps, and he's going to be told to fuck off.

Duncan does a little nod to try and smooth things over. He gets one in return, followed by something like a smile.

It's not the sort-of-smile that sets him off — it's her eyes. Knowing and dark, with something soft and molten underneath, they scan him up and down slowly and send him straight on his way to a semi. Christ. She's not even his type. Does he have one? Did he ever get a chance to settle on a type while fucking his way through the paid women that came with the jobs, or the one night stands that came in between?

It's too late to debate: she's decided for him. She pays, picks up her pharmacy carrier bag and makes for the door. When her gloved fingers drum between his shoulder blades as she passes, it's more like a secret handshake than a seduction. Duncan is done for. He leaves his coffee on the counter and follows her outside, only vaguely caring about the wide stare of the waitress who watches the whole thing happen.

Half-way down the streets, the woman stops in her stride and turns to face him.

"Have you changed your mind?" she asks.

"No. Why?"

"You've slowed down your pace."

How perceptive is she? He _had_ slowed down. Caution had knocked him back, and he'd started to reconsider the wisdom of this pursuit. The woman could easily be another setup, though she looks like the furthest thing from a honey trap.

She steps closer, boots creaking in the slush. She puts her hands on him, palms pressed flat against chest like she's going to slide it open and have a look inside. She lifts her face up to his face.

"If you are concerned for your safety," she says quietly, "you may choose the motel yourself."

 _Shouldn't you be the one to worry?_ Duncan thinks. In the end, he only nods dumbly while he stares at the shape of her mouth and tries to decide where his curiosity ends and arousal begins.

\---

As soon as they're inside, Duncan starts to strip. That's how these things go — in, out. Besides, Camille will be done in another hour or two, and he'll need to pick her up from the shelter. No time to waste.

Hands still gloved and folded before her, the woman watches him in silence, backlit by the deficient winter light that makes its way in through cheap curtains.

"Stop," she says when he's out of his coat and sweater.

He raises an eyebrow, but lets his arms drop to his sides. She steps closer, all purpose and stealth. When she's within reach, he draws her in, tries to kiss her, but she shrugs him off and eases his arms back down again.

"I'd like to touch you first," she whispers.

This is going off script, he thinks, but nods his agreement. Off come her gloves, laid neatly aside on the nightstand, and nothing else. Her hands are beautiful, absurdly delicate when they land against his battered body. What the hell does she want to touch him for? No one bothers to touch him. Oddly transfixed, he watches the soft concentration on her face as she moves her fingertips down his shoulders and chest, like instruments for charting constellations between his scars. Her fingernails are trimmed and plain, not the acrylic red claws he's used to having dragged down his back or tugging at his chest hair. It dawns on him, with a kind of shock, that he is being caressed.

"What's your name?" he mutters distractedly. At least that line's from the script.

Her index finger slides down the long white scar on his belly. "Are you proud of these?" she asks, as if she didn't hear him.

"No," he says. The honesty unwinds him. He reaches to stroke the dark waves of her hair. She leans into his touch with a sigh, presses herself whole against his body, then opens her mouth against his shoulder scar and starts to suck.

Duncan nearly swears. The curse falters in his throat and comes up as a groan. He tangles his fingers in her hair, doesn't know what to do except just hold her there against his skin, hot mouth, hot breath, all of her strange and unexpected. He shuts his eyes and feels into the little fast twirls of her tongue that seem to open up the aches and burns of his ancient wounds.

What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

She comes up for air, mouth red and softly panting, eyes bright and fixed on him. He can't remember the last time he wanted anyone so badly. He can't wait anymore. He cups her face whole and kisses her, hungry and rough. She doesn't object. Her tongue twists hot in his mouth while she dumps her coat on the floor and climbs on him, scales him, feather light and rifle lean in his arms when he finally gets his bearings and picks her up whole.

They come crashing on the bed. He's on his knees on the mattress, struggling with one boot while she peels out of the other. The lace-ups go flying. Then her trousers, then whatever soft cashmere thing she wears on top, and then he's got her down to a little silk camisole and panties, both a shimmering beetle green. They look so fucking good on her that he wants to rip them off with his teeth.

For only a moment, she's sprawled and pliant under him, all dark silk and creamy skin, legs sliding up his shoulders. He kisses the arch of her foot, nips at her toes and wishes he could savour this view — not a chance. With a sharp inhale, she twists and shoves him down. Before he can struggle, she's climbed on top and has got him by the wrists.

Damn. He really wanted his hands free so he could slide them under that silk. He grunts and struggles against her grip. How can this slip of a woman be so strong? Or is it just his wreck of an old body giving up on him?

“Be still,” she says softly and bends down over him, skewering him with those molten eyes. She kisses his mouth, the sharp line of scar tissue on his cheek, all slow and tender. By degrees, he stops putting up a fight.

When she reaches his eyepatch, she stops. “May I see?” she asks.

He stares up at her with his good eye, speechless.

Everything around them has grown still. He’s suddenly ill at ease. The tenderness of her mouth against his brow and cheekbone only makes him feel more exposed.

In the end, he shakes his head no.

She sits up slowly, thumbs caressing circles into his wrists.

“The eye. Was it a sacrifice?”

He turns his head towards the room’s interior and stares into the murk. A strange pain settles in his chest, deep under his bones. He thinks about Camille. “No,” he says after a moment. “A downpayment on old debts.”

Enough of this. He twists his wrists and gets himself free, sending her lurching down over him. When he catches her, she lets out a little laugh, then sinks down to spear him with a kiss. She's finally his to touch.

He snakes one hand under the insect-coloured silk, gets his fill of her tiny breasts, dives into her panties and finds her so sweetly soaked it makes his teeth clench with want. With his other he fumbles for his belt, shoves down his pants and finds, godfuckingdamnit, that he's not even half hard.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He inhales sharply and squirms under her. If he can get her on her back again, he can buy himself more time. Too late: she hasn't just noticed — she's straddled his thighs, braced against him with shocking strength, and fixed her eyes on his mostly limp cock.

He slumps, shuts his eye and swallows down the hot angry shame of it. There's no chance for excuses. They've just met — what could he possibly say? That it's been like this since the torture dungeon? That a daily soup of painkillers and booze means that he can now only get it up on every third go or so?

He could throw her off, zip up, walk out the door, put the whole thing out of his mind.

"If you wanna leave," he mutters instead, "that's fine."

He hears her draw in a breath and shift down his body. So she's going then? No. Her hands are on him, spinning ribbons of touch down his chest and sides. Why the hell is she nudging his pants down? He risks looking up and sees her, suspended over him with that same look: soft concentration. Her fingertips meet on his belly scar and trace from there down to his cock. She picks it up. She lets it slide in the cradle of her palm. She looks up to meet his gaze.

He swallows hard and grips the sheets.

“Is this another downpayment on your debt?" she asks.

He stares at her, dumbfounded. After a moment, he jerks his head: yes.

"If you think this is a problem," she says gently, "you are mistaken."

With that, she peels off her beetle-wing top, lifts herself up and out of her underwear. She folds over him, all waves of dark hair and creamy skin poured over long limbs. If this was all going to script, he'd be groping her everywhere by now, fucking her into the headboard, but Duncan — Duncan can only fist the duvet and stare.

Because the woman has taken his half-soft dick in her hands again. She's lowering herself down. With her fingers, she's dragging him, like a painter's brush, through the hot slickness between her legs. Her face melts into a look of utmost and complete pleasure. Again. Slowly. Again and again. Rocking her hips, rubbing and pressing herself against his not-quite-there erection as if it were the best thing in the world.

Duncan's mouth goes slack. His head hits the pillow. Whatever noise he makes isn't pretty, and grows more undignified when she kneads him against her firm little clit. He's so turned on that his brain is spinning in his skull, and still he's nowhere near to a full-blown hard-on, still nowhere close to getting inside her. At least he remembers to touch her: he grips her hips with unsteady hands and feels the slow tide of her moving against him. Eyes closed, lips parted, head back, she looks quietly ecstatic and so fucking beautiful it hurts.

"Just gonna use me to get off?" he grunts. His own voice sounds strangled in his throat.

She licks her lips and peers down at him. There's that impression of a smile again, the one she gave him at the diner.

"Pleasure given can be pleasure taken," she answers. "Don't you know you're made of everything I want?"

In a flash, it all falls into place inside Duncan's occasionally thick head: she's not here for a solid, everyday fuck. This woman has wanted _him_ , nothing but the wrecked and broken parts of him, since the moment she put her hands on his scars.

The thought opens up some kind of cavernous pool of tenderness inside his chest.

"Come here," he says.

"Where?"

"Here."

He tugs at her hips, gently. She goes willingly, laughing silently all the way as her knees slide her up the length of his body. She's there where he wants her: looming close enough to his face for him to smell her warmth and scent.

He gives himself a moment to stroke her ass, her delicate hipbones, the dark tight curls between her legs. Clichés bubble to the front of his mind: you're not like other women, you look and smell so good.  
  
Her fingertips dance over his moustache and scruff.

"Those may hurt," he mutters at her.

She only shakes her head: _it doesn't matter_.

And then he gets to taste her. The deep warm ocean inside her sinks over Duncan's face. He locks her in his arms, buries his tongue against her and when her thighs start to shake and her little sighs of pleasure start coming fast, Duncan feels transported.

Time moves slowly after that. They rearrange their bodies on the shoddy creaking bed. Minutes, half an hour, maybe more go by and Duncan is still there, feasting unhurriedly between her legs, letting her take what she wants, ride his mouth from one orgasm to another. His face is drenched. His tongue grows strained and tired. Friction reddens the inside of her thighs. Somewhere along the way, he reaches down, finds his cock achingly hard, gets himself off in a few rough strokes. It's almost an afterthought.

He drifts into her arms afterwards, face buried against those small creamy breasts, engulfed in her limbs, warmth, breath. He feels ridiculously at peace. He wants to tell her things: about his pet fish, about Camille, about the albino stag he saw that morning in the woods.

Instead, he sleeps.

He wakes up to the trill of his phone in his coat pocket. The woman, of course, is gone.

\---

The wind is still dancing with the snow. At least another inch must have come down since Duncan's been sitting here, waiting for the rare stag to appear.

He's half a pack of cigarettes into his stakeout when he hears movement. It's coming from behind: a faint rustle most untrained ears would ignore, each one well timed to mask itself under a fresh snowy gust.

No creature would come this close. Nothing wild moves with this much cunning. In a blink, Duncan's on his feet, knocking his fist against the tarpaulin roof to send up a cloud of snow into enough of a distraction to put some space between himself and whoever is stupid enough to stalk him. He draws his piece, makes a dash for the nearest pine and takes cover.

He counts with each breath. He waits for the powder to settle. When it does, Duncan finds himself five meters away from the barrel of a rifle being pointed at him by the woman from the diner.

"You," he rasps, and his guard almost drops.

Dark coat, like his coat. Sturdy boots, like his boots. Isn't that what sold him on her in the first place? Her gun is a bespoke 110 Series. Last time he saw one like that was in Jazmin's warehouse. It's so obvious now: the silence, the clothes, the expert way she holds her fine weapon. Dangerous. She's utterly dangerous.

For a moment, she looks almost surprised, before soft concentration settles over her face, the same look that took him apart in that cheap motel room.

Breaths steaming, they size each other up over the metal of their guns.

"This isn't my idea of a second date," Duncan growls at her.

"Then perhaps we misunderstand each other," she says with a calm Duncan doesn't feel and, before he can ask why she didn't kill him in the motel, she kicks up another cloud of snow into the space between them.

Goddamnit, she's blatantly used his own trick against him. Pissed, he dives into the cloud, after her. Pretty damn stupid — her view is clearer than his, and she could take her chances and fire. But when he crash-lands in the snow, he manages to take her down with him.

For a second, he thinks he's got her: a handful of leather boot wiggles in his grip, then kicks back, knocking him in the teeth and then, goddamnit, she's slipped him again. When he's back on his feet, seeking with his pointed gun, she's vanished from view.

Her footsteps in the snow betray her. Duncan tracks them cautiously through the pines until they veer behind a trunk and disappear. He snaps his neck up. He knows the tree-climbing tricks she's likely to play, because he plays them too. Too late — she's already dropped down from the branch, right behind him, and pressed the cold barrel right up against his back.

He puts his arms up slowly, gun still in hand, just for show. It will take nothing now to spin around and get that beautiful rifle off her. But then he hears her voice.

"If you would like to live, I will need you to leave."

Duncan's immediate plan falters. What the hell? Isn't she here to collect one of the many bounties on his head?

"Can I turn?" he asks.

"Gun down first."

"No."

"Then no. Stay as you are." She's perfectly still behind him, silent for a long moment. "Who sent you?" she says at last.

Another script in Duncan's head has gone awry. What is she playing at? "I was gonna ask you the same thing," he answers.

He can almost hear the cogs turning in her head. He can hear her steaming, measured breath behind him and tries to fight against the wave of memory and arousal that it stirs. It distracts him.

As distraction goes, it doesn't get any worse than this: he hears fresh footsteps approaching, one set of them, short and soft. He readies himself to strip the woman of her gun, and to brace himself for whoever is about to join her.

"Duncan?"

A shape catches in Duncan's periphery: still some distance away, small frame, coming closer, with wide frightened eyes.

Shit shit shit.

Camille.

Instinct takes over. There is only one option now. He kicks out, gets the woman in the knee hard enough to draw a sharp cry of pain, snaps his elbow back into her face for good measure. Then he darts off through the snow in bounding leaps, spins about to put himself and his gun between the woman and Camille.

"Camille. What the hell are you doing here? Go back. Now."

"Duncan," Camille says again, her voice fragile but insistent. He knows by now when she's trying to tell him something important. He shoots her a glare over his shoulder and sees on her face as much fear as bewilderment.

Camille points shakily towards the woman, half crumpled where Duncan had left her. "Duncan. This— this is Chiyoh."

"You know her?"

"We met last week in town. She's our new neighbor."

The woman lifts and rights herself slowly. Her rifle stays lowered. There is a small trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth where Duncan's elbow got her. She licks at it, cool and collected as if he'd never knocked her down.

"Duncan," she says quietly, almost to herself, with the barest impression of a smile. "Hello, Camille," she adds.

Duncan stares at her.

"Chiyoh," he mouths.

"You know the house by the smaller lake beyond the woods? It's that one. Isn't it, Chiyoh?" Camille says.

Chiyoh fixes Camille with a long look, then nods slowly.

The house — Duncan knows it. A twenty minute hike from here, in the opposite direction from their neck of the woods.

The gusts grow still around them. Snow picks up gently anew and settles in Chiyoh's hair. She watches Duncan with those soft and molten eyes.

Whatever Duncan's heart is doing isn't due to exertion or fear.

He gets it now, her reason for being out here, her gun in his face. Whatever - whoever - is in that house by the smaller lake, she would do anything to protect it.

He hears a gasp. 

His guard falls. He looks back to Camille, sees her face change from confusion and fright to brilliant awe.

Far up ahead, hooves skidding, a herd is making its way over the frozen stream. They're lead by a magnificent young stag nearly as white as the freshly fallen snow.

Duncan re-holsters his gun. He takes in Camille's beaming face, the animals' graceful glide through the winter woods.

He knows that when he turns again, the woman called Chiyoh will be gone.


End file.
